


The Transpersonal Plane

by h0ldthiscat



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, fic prompts, fic requests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0ldthiscat/pseuds/h0ldthiscat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are we doing?” She laughs and looks around the restaurant at the other couples huddled close together at too-small tables, sharing too-small portions at too-high prices. “How do you date someone you already know?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Transpersonal Plane

**Author's Note:**

> The transpersonal is a term used by different schools of philosophy and psychology in order to describe experiences and worldviews that extend beyond the personal level of the psyche, and beyond mundane worldly events. 
> 
> Transpersonal psychology is a sub-field or "school" of psychology that integrates the spiritual and transcendent aspects of the human experience with the framework of modern psychology. It is also possible to define it as a "spiritual psychology". (Wikipedia)

When the waiter brings her soup and his salad, she can’t take it anymore and says, “Mulder, this is--”

“Weird, I know,” he finishes for her. 

She grins and is able to breathe again. “Oh, thank god.”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” he says through his own smile. 

“What are we doing?” She laughs and looks around the restaurant at the other couples huddled close together at too-small tables, sharing too-small portions at too-high prices. “How do you date someone you already know?”

“I don’t know, I missed that issue of Cosmo.”

She chuckles. “Well at least on this date I know I won’t be asked if I’ve ever had to shoot anyone.”

Mulder smiles and spears a piece of salad with his fork. “Men ask you that?”

She shrugs. “What do women ask you?”

“Shrink-type questions, mostly, once they find out I’m a psychologist.”

“Shrink me,” she instructs.

“You’re unshrinkable, Scully,” he says with an indecipherable smile. 

“Is that a compliment?” she spars. 

“I already know you, that’s all. I wouldn’t be analyzing anything. I’d just be relying on hard facts.”

“Say that again,” she says suddenly, the words springing unbidden from her lips.

“Hard facts?” he repeats.

She grins. “It’s just nice to hear you say it for once.”

“Not so fun being Mulder, huh?” His smile is wry and his eyes are deep.

She quirks an eyebrow and takes a sip of her wine. “It has its advantages.”

“For instance?”

“Well right now Mulder is arguably the handsomest man in this restaurant,” she says, lowering her voice, and she thinks she actually sees him blush. 

“Arguably being the operative word,” he says, straightening his tie. “And he happens to be dining with the most beautiful woman in the world. No question about that.”

She grins, looks over her shoulder, half-expecting for some cosmic shoe to drop, now that they speak freely and act openly. “Isn’t it nice to be able to talk like this? Without having to worry about… anything?”

“Speak for yourself,” he says good-naturedly, and when she cocks her head he reaches across the table and takes her hand. “If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that things can change at any time. It’s hard to not worry about… the possibilities. Even the horrible ones.”

“Well,” she says slowly, battling the lump in her throat that rose at his admission, “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Are you?” She strokes her thumb across the back of his hand.

He shakes his head firmly. His eyes are dark with curiosity and desire, something she’s only seen during the few times they’ve slept together. It is unbelievably intoxicating to know that she is the cause. 

“How’s your salad?” she asks, breaking the trance-like state they seem to have worked themselves into. This happened on her couch the other night, too. They’d been talking about something dull like the soap in her bathroom, and then she suddenly realized they’d been staring at each other for five minutes without saying a word. It was incredible to just be together this way now, connected on this new metaphysical plane that only brought them closer.

“It’s bland,” he admits, pushing some spinach leaves around on his plate.

“You don’t even like salad, why’d you get it?” she asks, taking a sip of her now-lukewarm soup. 

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Never say never.”

“I read this… article, years ago now, on… dating advice.” He winces and she can’t contain a grin. “Tips, you know. And one of the pieces of advice they gave was to order a salad so your date felt comfortable ordering one too.”

“Why wouldn’t I feel comfortable ordering a salad with you?”

“Well the article was meant to be rules for first dates. But we’ve been eating meals together for seven years. Most people don’t date their best--” He stops himself short, looking boyishly bashful all of a sudden. 

“You can say it,” she beams. “I’m your best friend.”

“How do you know that’s what I was going to say? What if I’d been about to say best concubine?”

“Then I’d say you’ve got a lot of salads in your future, pal.” Her mouth twists into a smile at the look of pride and--god, is it love?--that flashes across his face. 

“I set myself up for that one,” Mulder admits. 

“You read a dating article? Really?” Somehow she can’t imagine him poring over anything that isn’t the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue or the National Enquirer.

“Don’t make me any more embarrassed than I already am,” he pleads, and his big puppy dog eyes are enough to get her to concede. She distantly hopes that he doesn’t realize their power over her and use it the next time they’re out in the field. 

“Women’s dating articles always give ridiculous advice,” she continues. “Like to come back from the bathroom and hand him your panties and say, ‘I’m ready to go now.’”

Mulder nearly chokes on his glass of Scotch. “Do people actually do that?”

“God, I hope not,” she sighs. “And before you ask, no, I’ve never done it.”

“But you’re not excluding it from the realm of possibility,” he says, the corners of his mouth twisting as he restrains himself from smiling.

Scully considers her answer, taking a sip of wine. “I’ve come to expand my realm of possibility quite a bit since I’ve known you, Mulder.”

“That’s not an answer.” The look in his eyes is nearly feral.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

Their entrees arrive and they pick at them disinterestedly, far more taken with each other than the over-seasoned tilapia and chicken. Scully had every intention of ordering dessert when they’d arrived earlier this evening, but Mulder is playing footsie with her under the table and all she wants to do is be too close to him. In a cab, on his couch, in his bed. In that order. 

“Done?” she asks after a few more minutes, and after the gaze on his face has turned to what should clearly be classified as a smolder. 

“Yes,” he says, his voice deeper than normal. 

X

In the cab, he sits in the middle seat, unable to have even two feet of space between them. She kisses him hungrily and they fog up the windows. When they pull back for air, she sees her lipstick, redder than usual, smeared across his lips and chin. She feels like a goddamned movie star. 

They go to his place because they’re closer. There is something she loves about the indiscernible look they get from the couple checking their mail in the lobby of Mulder’s building. They can be free here, away from work and monsters and too-small offices. They can be themselves.

Mulder lets them into his apartment and she backs him against the door the second it’s closed. She works at his tie as his hands smooth under her coat, finding her waist and squeezing. She shucks her coat and tosses it out of sight, walking them backwards towards his bedroom. For a moment she loses footing on yesterday’s newspaper, but he steadies them upright with his sure hands. 

They stumble into his bedroom, bypassing her earlier thoughts of the couch, where the bedside lamp casts the whole room in a yellow-orange glow. 

“Sit down,” she says softly, pushing him lightly on the chest. He plops down on the bed obediently, his hazel eyes swirling. She loosens his tie and tosses it away, unbuttons the first several buttons of his neatly-pressed shirt, and then steps back. “Stay here,” she says, “Watch.”

With other lovers, the race to get each other’s clothes off fast enough had been thrilling, but something had happened the first time Mulder had undressed her two weeks ago: she’d felt… new. She felt like she was seeing herself for the first time and could finally love and appreciate everything about her body that she’d been taught to hate. She wants to show him that now.

She untucks her green blouse from her skirt and, crossing her arms in front of her, pulls the shirt over her head. It lands quietly on the hardwood floor beside his running shoes. When she’d gotten dressed this morning she’d taken care to pick a bra that she liked, and judging from the look on Mulder’s face, he likes it too. It’s simple and black, with lacing on the sides that come together in a front clasp between the cups. Scully undoes it and lets her bra fall to the floor, revelling in the sensation of freedom and in the effect it’s clearing having on Mulder. 

She swipes a hand up her side, across the underside of her breast, then up to cup herself and squeeze for just a moment. She tweaks both her nipples between her forefingers and Mulder groans. 

“Scully…”

“Shhh…” She places both her hands on his shoulders and leans down to whisper the sibilant into his ear, her breasts bobbing dangerously close to his face. He leans his head forward, teeth seeking to bite, tongue seeking to lick, but she swings out of the way and back to standing. “Not yet,” she coos. 

She reaches up under her pencil skirt and unhooks her stockings. They’re not an everyday item, but they have their uses. She thinks Mulder audibly gulps as she rolls the nylons down, leaving them and her most impractical pair of Manolos out of sight. She turns her back to him now, feeling young and scared and sexy and bold all in the same breath as she looks over her shoulder at him and unzips her skirt. She wiggles a little to get it past her hips, and then lets it drop. 

“Jesus Christ, Scully.” A glance down at his lap tells her he is more than enjoying her little show. It’s almost over.

Without breaking eye contact, she slides her underwear, sleek and black, over her backside and down her legs, and steps out of them, bare before him. She approaches him slowly, panties dangling between her slim fingers, and drops them into his hands. 

Her voice is low and sweet when she says, “I’m ready to go now.”


End file.
